


Unlocked

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: TSC Oneshots [1]
Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: An attempt was made anyway, Angst and Drama, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, London Shadowhunter Institute, Other, POV Third Person Omniscient, Parabatai Feels, Pre-Canon, Sick Jem Carstairs, Sick Will Herondale, Sickfic, Vomiting, Will and Jem aren't parabatai yet, except pre parabatai feels, god i love that parabatai feels is a tag, it's will so... dramatics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Will has been at the London Institute for a year when he gets sick.  He knows he's cursed--all who love him will die.  He's seen it happen.  His sister, Ella... she was the first.  But still, he's weak.  Can he manage to keep everyone out while he's sick and hurting?
Relationships: Jem Carstairs & Will Herondale, Will Herondale & Everyone
Series: TSC Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659478
Comments: 14
Kudos: 48





	Unlocked

**Author's Note:**

> This was an exercise in third person omniscient POV, so do forgive me if the POV is a little muddied.

“Get _OUT_!”

Charlotte Branwell jumped in her seat, blotching the letter to Aunt Callida she was currently penning. “Good heavens, was that _Will_?” she asked aloud to the empty drawing room. The room gave no response. Still, she was fairly certain she wasn’t mistaken. She’d never heard Jem sound like that, and it certainly wasn’t Jessamine. The only real contender was Will. The boy could be disagreeable, she knew that well—his protests of everything from Charlotte’s help training to eating Agatha’s cooking were liable to be heard by the neighboring buildings—but she’d never heard him sound quite so _loud_.

Charlotte paused, her pen hovering above the inkwell. She’d long ago stopped running over to assist whenever Will got into a tiff with another of the Institute’s residents—it did no one any good to micromanage Will’s interactions with the rest of the Institute, least of all herself or Will. Still, she was ready to jump into action should this prove to be less of a passing quarrel and more of an actual fist-to-face fight.

One minute passed. Two. Three. Charlotte began to let herself relax. Will was hard to deal with, certainly, but he was agreeable (for a certain measure of agreeableness) if you gave him space. Whoever had caught his ire this morning would surely realize this sooner rather than later. She was just about to get back to writing, assuming that everything was back to normal, when there came the sound of shattering porcelain and a scream.

Oh dear. Abandoning her letter, Charlotte shot to her feet and swept off down the hall, hoping to get to the source of the destruction before it could escalate to bodily harm.

She got to the stairwell at the same time as Henry, her dear husband, came fumbling up from his laboratory, his shirtsleeve smoking slightly and his hair in disarray. 

“Heard that crash then, did you?” he asked. She nodded. She was surprised he’d heard it, too. He’d been bent over the blueprints of a device that he’d hoped would attract weapons back to their sheathes at the touch of a button all week. All he’d succeeded so far in doing was accidentally stabbing a mannequin in the buttocks and, apparently, lighting himself on fire. “I wonder if now is a good time to test my design—”

“Not now, Henry! Focus!” Charlotte said, drawing him from his musing. 

“Right, of course dear.”

Together the two of them began to climb the stairs, side by side. As they ascended, Thomas joined them, carrying a dagger, and then Jessamine, her arms crossed over her chest and her face pinched to hide the curiosity in her eyes, making four of them. That was half the Institute, four of its eight occupants heading off toward the source of the commotion. Another set of stairs, another landing, and then the band of four was on Will’s floor, where they stopped dead all at once, spotting Sophie on her hands and knees gingerly picking up pieces of a shattered pitcher and muttering to herself. The wall and floor were soaked in water, dripping down the doorway across from Will’s.

“'Oh, _boys that age_ ’,” Sophie said mockingly. Then she looked up and, spotting Charlotte in turn, jerked upright. “Oh! Forgive me, I wasn’t saying anything, Mrs. Branwell!”

“You’re free to say whatever you’d like, Sophie. And call me Charlotte,” Charlotte said. She’d said it a hundred times already, hoping to instill a sense of equality in the Institute’s newest maid. It had yet to do any good. “Now tell me—what’s going on?”

Sophie frowned. Her freshly-healed scar was livid on her face as she thrust a hand out, pointing toward Will’s door. “That boy—I shouldn’t speak ill of him, Mrs. Branwell, but he’s gone and thrown a pitcher at my head, he has!”

Oh dear. Charlotte stepped forward, kneeling down to help Sophie with the larger shards. “Jessie, go and fetch a broom from the kitchen, would you—?” 

“ _Me_?” Jessamine demanded. “Oh, absolutely not!” She threw her hair over her shoulder, turning a glare on Charlotte. Ah, Charlotte should have known that she wasn’t there to _help_ —she just wanted to know who was fighting with who, and now that she’d seen she was going to go right back to her dollhouse, thank you very much.

Will, standing on the other side of the door with his arms folded over his stomach, heard Charlotte sigh. Thomas, ever the sweetheart, offered to fetch the broom and dustpan, and Will heard him trot off down the hall, following Jessamine’s slapping footfalls as she abandoned the rest of them. Jessamine had the right idea—Will just had to wait the rest of them out. They’d leave eventually, leave him to his misery. He’d made a mistake with the pitcher—he hadn’t meant to cause a commotion, he’d just been so desperate to get Sophie to _go away_ that he hadn’t _thought_ , and now everyone in the building was here. Well, everyone but Agatha. Agatha and—

“Was that a scream I heard?”

Damnit. Will winced, his stomach flipping at the sound of Jem’s voice, and he couldn’t tell if it was the illness that seemed to have caught him or his nerves at facing his future _parabatai_ in his current state.

“Oh, Jem,” Charlotte said, turning toward her newest ward. He’d been there about a year already, his hair and eyes slowly turning more and more silver with the passage of time. He’d had a hard day yesterday—they were doing endurance conditioning, and he’d nearly passed out training with Will. “You’re supposed to be resting, dear.”

Jem shook his head. “I want to help,” he said, approaching her carefully, silver-flecked eyes focused on the floor. His feet were bare, and she held her hand up so that he wouldn’t accidentally step on one of the broken pitcher pieces.

“Henry and I will help,” Charlotte said. She smiled kindly at Jem. Such sweetness, at only thirteen—a dire contrast to Will, who was proving himself sour indeed. Still… Charlotte cared for both of the boys, no matter how much Will did to test her patience. There was something in Will that had been hurt, and hurt badly—by what she had no idea, but she was determined to get through to him. Or, if not to get through to him, then to cause him no more pain.

As Thomas returned with the broom and dustpan for Sophie, Charlotte stood up and marched over to Will’s door, knocking on it with a series of quick raps. “Will, it seems we need to talk. Would you mind coming out so we can do it face to face?”

For a moment there was nothing, no response. Then, in a sullen voice, Will spat, “No.”

Well then. Charlotte pressed a sigh through her teeth. Henry was hovering at her elbow, a frown on his face. His arm was still smoking gently, and she reached out a hand absently to pat it. “Then will you at least talk to me through the door? Tell me what poor Sophie ever did to deserve the treatment you’re giving her?”

Another pause, a longer one this time. Then—“I told her to go away and she wouldn’t. It’s her own bloody fault.”

Will winced as the words left his tongue, feeling sicker by the moment. He’d been raised to be kind to women, to girls, even when they were servants—it tugged at everything inside of him to curl his lip and spit the words. But he had to, he _had to_ —or they’d get close, they’d love him, and then he’d put them all in danger.

Charlotte pressed herself against the door, entirely unaware of the churning stomach and the turmoil assaulting the boy inside. “That’s not nice, Will. You shouldn’t have done it.” 

“Well, maybe I’m not a nice person,” Will’s voice came, muttered through the door, but Charlotte was already turning away.

“Sophie,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “What were you attempting to do in Will’s room?”

Sophie turned large brown eyes up toward her mistress, made all the larger by the scar on her cheek. She still expected to be kicked out at the smallest offense, the poor girl. “I was just bringing him his morning water, Ma’am. I was going to pick up a few of the plates and things before I left so it wouldn’t attract mice but he’s in a right mood today.”

“Alright then,” Charlotte said. She stood up to her full height—not very impressive at all, but she would work with what she had—and squared off with Will’s door. “Will,” she said, putting on her most serious voice. “I’m coming in.”

The response was immediate. “Don’t you _dare_!” Will yelled, his voice pitching higher with the force of it. “Go away! All of you! Just _go away and leave me be_!”

Charlotte sighed. She felt like all she did was sigh with Will. “Will—”

“No! I said _no_! No no no no _no_ —”

Charlotte closed her eyes, waiting him out. He’d always had a good pair of lungs on him—from all the running around in Welsh fields with his sisters, she assumed—but even he had to pause for breath. And when he did… when he did, she heard it. Just for a moment. A wavering breath, unsteady, and a heavy swallow.

“Oh, Will…” she said. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

“I’m not!” his voice came, but there was a tinge of panic to it now. Charlotte looked over at Henry and Jem for a moment before she decided that enough was enough and reached for the doorknob.

“ _Wait_ —” Will started, but she was already in.

The room was a mess. Clothes, books, dishes… Sophie was right, they were going to get mice in here if someone didn’t come clean it up. Charlotte ignored all of that, however, in favor of turning her eyes on the boy standing just beside the doorway, glaring at her balefully. His arms were crossed over his chest, but despite the haughty posture she could tell immediately that his face was too pale, his dark curls damp with sweat, his pajamas sticking to his shoulders.

“Get. _Out_ ,” he bit, voice hoarse, chewing through the words like a coyote chewed through a cut of meat. His dark blue eyes blazed.

Charlotte shook her head. God, she wasn’t going to leave. Will swallowed hard, edging back and away from her. He couldn’t let her touch him, couldn’t—if she touched him it was all over. He wouldn’t be strong enough to resist. She took a step forward and Will glanced over to the doorway, wondering if he could run. He could, likely… but Jem was there, and Thomas, and he wouldn’t get far in his current state before they’d catch up. Still, he could try—he could—

Before he could make a decision one way or the other, Charlotte’s hand found his forehead, palming it gently in search of the fever he knew he had. A bolt of electricity went through him. It was… it was good. It was _so good_. He swallowed, relaxing against her. He hadn’t let himself be touched in… god, it had been a year already. A year since his parents came to the Institute, begging him to come out and talk to him. A year since he ran away. A year since Ella—

The grief seized in his chest, spasming and clenching down over his heart. He jerked back, throwing his hands forward on instinct. Whatever it took to get that hand away, whatever it took to keep them _safe_ —he _had to_ , he _had to do it_ , there _was no alternative_.

The good news was that Charlotte was a shadowhunter. She barely stumbled as he pushed her forcefully away. The bad news… the bad news was the hurt that flashed across her face as she realized what he’d done.

Still. “Don’t touch me,” he croaked, feeling like his insides were crawling up his throat. His stomach was a wave of ash, rising and rising and rising. He swallowed it down, swallowed it down, but still it rose, and as Charlotte stared at him sadly from across the gaping chasm he’d rent between them, he dove for the washbasin on his dresser and threw up everything in his stomach.

Charlotte closed her eyes, backing away from Will even though she longed to reach out again, to hold his hair back as he vomited. He didn’t… he didn’t want her there. Of course he didn’t. And it would do no one any good to push him when he was feeling so ill. She opened her eyes again, her gaze immediately going to Henry. She gave him a shaky approximation of a smile that said, ‘It’s fine, I’m fine,’ in response to the question in his eyes. She then turned to Sophie, who was staring at her with those wide, dark eyes once again. “Sophie. Go down to Agatha and tell her we’ll be in need of some light broth. I’ll go fetch another pitcher of water for Will and then we’ll—we’ll leave him be and hopefully he’ll feel better by evening—”

“No,” said Jem, speaking up for the first time. 

“No?” Charlotte asked, bewildered. “But—”

“No, I mean… you go. I’ll take care of him.” 

Charlotte studied her ward, biting her lip. He wasn’t demanding—far from it, in fact—but there was still something steely in his voice, as if he wouldn’t be budged. He seemed to understand what he was getting into, and was sure that he could do it. She wanted to urge him to relax, to go back to his own bed, but he was standing so tall before her, so resolute, that she slowly nodded. With one glance back at Will’s door, she took Henry by the arm and began to lead him away.

Jem sighed out a breath, leaning heavily on the door jamb for a moment. He could still hear Will retching on the other side of the door—short, aborted sounds that didn’t seem to be very productive. Sophie and Thomas were just about finished sweeping, and though they both gave Jem a worried glance, Jem just smiled. He had this under control. Mustering up all his energy, he marched into Will’s room.

“You’re an arse, William,” he said, schooling his voice into something calm but serious.

“Then leave me be, _James_ ,” Will spit. His hands were braced on either side of the basin, his head leaning heavily over it. He spit strings of saliva from his mouth, making an expression that pinched his pretty face in the mirror before him.

Jem sidled further inside, taking a seat on Will’s bed. “I won’t. You’re to be my _parabatai_ , I won’t leave you to suffer by yourself. No matter how hard you make it for me.”

For a long moment, there was silence between the two boys. Will had closed his eyes, breathing deep, steadying breaths, his face deathly pale. Jem, sure that he himself was paler than he should be, leaned against Will’s pillows and folded his knees to his chest, staring down Will’s reflection in the mirror. He could stay like this, in stalemate, for however long it took. Will, on the other hand, looked like he needed to sit down.

“…Why,” Will said finally. “Why would you want to help me? Maybe I don’t even want you to be my _parabatai_ anymore.”

Jem shook his head. “That ship has sailed, William. You can’t back out now.”

“We haven’t done the ritual yet, I can do whatever I want—”

“Is that what you want, though?”

“Obviously it is, now _get out of my ro_ —”

Jem shook his head again, harder. Then he pushed himself up into a sitting position, stretching his legs out to the floor. “Will. It’s just me now, okay? You don’t have to fight.”

Will bared his teeth in the mirror, his back tensing under his pajamas, before he looked away again. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he spit.

“What could possibly be better this way?”

The ache rose again inside of Will, the grief and guilt nearly strangling him. He clutched at his chest, closing his eyes, but Jem didn’t stop. “What’s the harm of letting one person in?” he asked. His voice was like a key, turning and turning inside of Will, and if it went far enough Will would be laid open before him.

Will grit his teeth, struggling to keep everything contained.

“Will… you can let me in,” came Jem’s soft voice.

“I’ll hurt you,” Will croaked, the emotion strangling him. A warning. The last warning.

Jem brushed it aside. “I’m sure you’ll do your best, but we both know there isn’t much you can do to me. I’m already dying, Will. Now please… _please_ let me help.”

And just like that, Will knew he couldn’t resist any longer. He felt his face scrunch up, the tears sluicing hot and fast down his cheeks. In an instant Jem was there, tugging him silently toward the bed, where he crumbled into the sheets, curling up on his side with his arms over his face. He missed Wales, he missed his Mam and Cecy, and his dad, and the horses and…

Ella. He missed Ella _so much_. But she was gone, and no matter what happened he had to live with the fact that he could never, ever go back. He could never have anything like his family ever again, could never let anyone love him. Just Jem. Just sick, dying Jem, who sat on the bed beside him and stroked his hair while he cried, and waited until he thought Will was asleep to go fetch a new pitcher of water, and who brought up bread and broth for Will to try and keep down. Jem, the best thing he’d ever had. Jem, who was going to die one day and leave Will all alone once again.

“I’m here,” Jem said, soothing, his voice following Will down into fitful sleep. “I’m not leaving. Not until my very last breath. You’re stuck with me, William—you’d better get used to it.”

Will slept. Jem sighed, shuffling closer, still stroking his hand up and down Will’s back. He wasn’t sure why Will was the way he was, but once upon a time, Will had asked to be his _parabatai_ and, when Jem had refused, had bested him in combat for the right to be his brother. Their ritual was scheduled for December, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new, and Jem… he sighed again, feeling Will’s chest rising under his palm. Jem knew he would do anything for Will.

“I love you,” he whispered, knowing that Will would only scoff and pull away if he were awake. But he was asleep, his breathing slow and heavy. 

Charlotte, listening at the door, closed her eyes and left them be.


End file.
